


Why You Should Always Shut The Bedroom Door (or at least sleep with more clothes on)

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur sleeps and Merlin can't help but watch and want. Modern AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why You Should Always Shut The Bedroom Door (or at least sleep with more clothes on)

**Author's Note:**

> omg this photo and this (NSFW) [gif](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lqlka7sOMX1qbn9eqo1_500.jpg) and ray lamontagne (although there is not ONE song but [this one](http://youtu.be/b11Pp56FcuQ) are to blame for this THING instead of the fest fic i'm meant to be working on. Sometimes plot bunnies and new fandom fun needs to be placated. The wonderful **Mamacita** beta'd this and then i fiddled so the remaining wrong bits are me. Just remember I WAS NEVER HERE YOU SAW NOTHING!  
>  **Disclaimer:** Merlin belongs to those clever chaps at BBC and Shine LTD. Not this little black duck.

God, Merlin loved to watch him sleep. There was just something about how warm and, well, snugly, Arthur looked when he was lying on a bed. Or a couch. Or the rug in their living room. Or that one time on the tube back from a party at Morgana's. Wherever he was, no matter how he was (head against a window, curled on his side, flat out on his back, sprawled on his stomach), there was just _something_ about Arthur sleeping that had Merlin's fingers twitching to touch. To taste. To explore.

But he didn't.

(Unless you counted that one time when they were both extremely drunk and on the verge of passing out, when Arthur had reached across the shared futon they'd collapsed on at Leon's and stroked Merlin's hair off his brow, their faces so close that Merlin could feel Arthur's lager-soaked breath flutter his eyelashes when Arthur had whispered that he had "such pretty eyes.")

(And no, he didn't count that time, because they'd never spoken of it. Even in the cold light of day with pounding hangovers and legs entwined and shared morning glories pressing into hips and smooth spaces, Arthur had just murmured something about Merlin being a bed hog, then got up and took a piss that would have made a horse jealous.)

Merlin guessed it was a little stalkery or strange, the amount of time he found himself leaning against the doorframe to Arthur's room, just watching: Arthur's chest lifting and falling in regular rhythm. Arthur's full lips slightly parted, the lower trembling with every puffed breath out. The soft, gold trail that started just under his belly button and wound down under tight cotton briefs that left little to the imagination about what Arthur was packing downstairs.

(There'd been that one time Merlin had nearly shit himself when Arthur had rolled over, eyes blinking slowly as his hand scratched over his stomach, fingertips on the move under said tight pants and revealing the blushing pink head before Arthur's hand curled over and down. It had taken a long sigh from Arthur for Merlin to find his feet and escape.)

To date, he hadn't been found out. And it had been for a _long_ time that Merlin had been practicing this particular form of flatmate perversion. He couldn't recall exactly when it had started; they'd shared a room at university, and then after they graduated it was a townhouse that Arthur's father had insisted he set them up in while Arthur continued his studies in international law. They'd hardly seen each other then, Arthur spending more and more time with his head stuck in books and entire weekends spent in the library whilst Merlin explored the night life that was on offer in Oxford for a sexually active gay male. When Arthur came out to his family (and when one's father found one's heir apparent with his mouth around the cock of said father's business partner's son, it screamed "I'm here and I'm queer!" loudly enough so Arthur had never had to find the words), they ended up being booted out of their three-level, four-bedroom, five-bath paradise and instead found themselves sharing a two-bed flat with Merlin's then-current casual shag, Owain. It was around this time that Merlin recognised he had a problem. An Arthur Sleep-Watching problem.

(Fine, it really was a lot earlier than that, but when you're living in a house so small you can't even swing a cricket bat without hitting all four walls – and Arthur may have been the cause of dents in at least two of them – things like your sleep-watching kink suddenly become more noticeable.)

(Or at least they're pointed out to you rather loudly by the casual shag who thought he was something more and it ends up with you and the one you like to sigh over silently in quiet corners being thrown out onto the street yet again, with you having to make quick excuses for exactly why the casual shag has burnt all the bed linen.)

(And only Arthur's bed linen, at that.)

Merlin could remember one very early morning back in their townhouse when the sun's first lavender rays were peeking through the curtains, burning the tips of Arthur's hair golden in the muted light, when he first thought of his slumbering best friend as something . . . more. He'd always thought Arthur was attractive (that mouth was made for sucking cock), and he was rather nice (when he wasn't calling Merlin stupid or daft or punching him "in a friendly manner" on the arm).

This, though – the sheets draped low enough around Arthur's hips to show those twin dimples just above the rise of one spectacular arse . . . one hand scrunched under his pillow, making the length of his back stretch, the skin almost glowing in the warming morning light. This was the moment that took Merlin's bleary-eyed, just-got-in-from-a-night-out-still-half-drunk mind and turned it on its head. Arthur changed from being just a mate – if being just a mate was at all possible, and Merlin really didn't think it was – into someone with whom Merlin wanted to share more than just a bed (now that they could only afford a tiny bedsit with their meagre wages as a bookstore clerk and telemarketer). They'd been friends for four, nearly five years, and apart from a handful of more than friendly touches and hugs that were held for a little too long (and that one time they'd kissed but Merlin wasn't even sure of that; tequila and an incredibly green but poor-tasting concoction Gwaine had created left him with a _lot_ of blank parts to that particular weekend), there had been no indication that Arthur felt anything more than _like_ for Merlin.

Until now.

Now, when Merlin was doing his sleepy/stalker/not-creepy-in-the-least watching of Arthur at a respectable six in the morning when his heart silenced itself and Merlin was fairly certain he'd stopped breathing.

" _Mhmm, Merlin_."

No. There was no conceivable possibility that Arthur had just said _his_ name. Merlin had completed his usual pre-watching checklist (check for signs of deep sleep, creep stealthily around the side of the door and then maybe one-step around the corner to that niche that fit against his back just so and allowed for the most comfortable position from which to watch Arthur sleep.) There was no way Arthur was awake.

Yet.

" _Come . . . come here."_

Arthur gave the command in a groggy voice, and as with all his absurd demands ("Get us a cup of tea, Merlin!" followed by "And who pays more of the rent around here?" then "Of course I don't think of you as my slave, more a bumbling manservant," ending in "Could be worse, I could get you to put away my clothes, not just sneak them in the wash with yours, and anyway, you're home more than I am, and don't think I haven't noticed you wearing my bloody university hoodie around, or the hole you put in the sleeve!"), Merlin ignored it.

Ignored it for all of five seconds, until Arthur rolled over and his hand reached out across the double bed towards Merlin and he moaned. _Moaned._

Merlin didn't know how he moved from the door to the side of the bed; he could only hear his heart beating a staccato in his chest and the loud sound of his own breathing as everything restarted again with Arthur simply saying his name.

" _Merrrrlin."_ Arthur moaned his name long and low, his hand grasping at the sheet closest to where Merlin bent nearly in two over him. Probably too close, because he could smell yesterday's sunshine still captured in the sheets (he'd washed them and was a little loud in telling Arthur he had to bathe before getting into them). There was that encompassing fresh scent that was all Arthur, too; the combination of that soap he loved and the bloody facial moisturiser the prat used filled in the spaces and had Merlin swaying closer and closer to the bed. A lot closer to where Arthur lay. His hand reaching out and finding nothing only made that little crease in his brow deepen.

Merlin had a "thing" for that crease. It was always there when Arthur worried, or was upset and wouldn't actually speak about it but would brood for days on end. Merlin usually managed to pull him out of whatever had caused the funk, but in his sleep . . . it was something different altogether. Merlin's own hand lifted, fingertips shakily resting on Arthur's brow as he attempted to smooth out the line.

"Shh, Arthur. I'm right here," he murmured, only to breath in sharply when Arthur's hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled him onto the bed.

More than that, he pulled Merlin right on top of Arthur.

And Arthur's rather hard member.

(And Merlin's own prick, which was already halfway there, rubbed up against it.)

Merlin didn't move. Didn't make any other sound.

Not that he really had a chance to, because the moment after he landed none too gently atop Arthur, the man with a rather good grip on his wrist pressed his lips to Merlin's.

Kissed him.

Not just a kiss – not a peck or an accidental brush of skin, but a _full-on snog_. There was no polite pressure indicating a desire for more, there were no seams being tentatively licked with the point of one's tongue. No, this was out and out ridiculous, _noisy_ snogging.

And Merlin could do nothing but kiss his Arthur right back.

Sure, there were a million and one questions burning in his brain – the "Are you actually awake and doing this?", "Where _did_ you learn to move your tongue like that?", "Oh, that tickles," and "Seriously, Arthur, are you awake?"

But for every question of Arthur's sanity there were also a thousand supportive dancing Merlins waving banners and strangely enough wearing those cheerleader skirts like you saw on American television, prancing about and cheering him on.

(For a brief second Merlin chastised himself over how much bad daytime TV he'd obviously allowed himself to watch if there were dancing male cheerleaders wearing skimpy clothes doing back flips and cartwheels in his head.)

(Or it could have had something to do with Arthur wanting to watch the _entire_ series of Bring It On movies a few nights earlier that had stuck in Merlin's brain. Arthur did, however, prove quite entertaining to watch when he was able to quote the entire first movie word for word.)

(Including a rather saucy rendition of the dance moves.)

So, because of the tiny dancing Merlins and how bloody _good_ Arthur's lips felt on his, Merlin continued the snogfest and pushed away any concerns over how extremely weird it would be if Arthur "woke up" to find Merlin grinding against him and sucking on his tongue like it was some sort of lolly he couldn't get enough of – although there might have been a point there. Arthur _did_ taste good, even for a mouth tainted by morning breath.

They kissed and kissed; Arthurs legs fell open wider and Merlin's leg fit between them in that "perfect for rutting against each other" position. Merlin let his fingers explore the soft gold strands that shone in the increasing sunlight atop Arthur's head, the curls at the nape of his neck, the longer strands that fell over Arthur's cheek because he refused to get his hair cut while his usual stylist was on holidays (no matter how ridiculously long it was getting). His trapped hand was now filled by Arthur's, palm to palm with fingers interlaced – as if letting go would break whatever spell they were under.

Arthur's kisses became more desperate with every roll of his hips (and the answering roll of Merlin's), and soft sighs and wanting moans filled the spaces between them – a heady mix of need and hints of things to come. When Arthur's lips finally left Merlin's (bruised and battered), only to glide down Merlin's neck leaving nips of pale skin that were sure to redden and bruise, Merlin finally found his voice.

"Arth – ohgodyesthere – Arthurrr!"

He tried again, and a few times more, but with every start, every beginning of his very handsy flatmate's mouth and hand (currently mapping out the smooth skin just under Merlin's pants), Arthur would answer with some sort of sexy physical touch and Merlin lost his train of thought once more.

Christ, Merlin couldn't even remember a time when he'd ever been this _hard_ before. His dick was wedged up against Arthur's thigh, and as Arthur's hand slipped under his pants to cup the round of his arse, it shifted to meet Arthur's prick, something Merlin had only ever seen the line of under thin cotton pants, and on the odd occasion, too-tight trousers. To feel Arthur pressed up against him like this, cock to cock, chest to chest, and tongues hopelessly tangled, was verging on too much but not enough for Merlin. The feeling must have been echoed by Arthur, who took their joined hands between them and guided Merlin's to his prick before settling his on Merlin's waist. Merlin didn't need to be shown anything else. His fingertips dove under the soft, jersey-like fabric of Arthur's underwear only to find Arthur's prick, sticky with precum and hopelessly hard like his own. Arthur's moan bordered on pornographic as Merlin wrapped his hand around Arthur's cock and fisted him roughly as Arthur's fingers pushed Merlin's pants down. His ridiculous rubber bracelets that celebrated everything from Breast Cancer research to some comic book character caught on Merlin's skin, pinching it a little. Not that Merlin minded. All he could concentrate on was the cock in his hand and how good it felt when Arthur finally touched it.

Arthur was touching his cock.

Touching and twisting and _holyfuckingshit_ dragging the edge of his nail along the thick vein underneath.

It was Merlin's turn for the utterly porny sounds this time as Arthur pulled their pricks together. The obscene amount of precum that had leaked from them both gave the perfect amount of lubricant. Merlin shuddered, his tongue on Arthur's echoing every joined movement of their cocks against each other. Merlin could feel his orgasm building from the space between his toes and low in his gut, rising with every tug and twist near the head that Arthur was guiding their hands to do. He could feel Arthur everywhere, from the way the coarse hairs covering Arthur's calves felt against his to the rapid beating of Arthur's heart in that space just beneath his own.

All of this, this touching and moaning and _want_ , and Arthur hadn't even opened his eyes.

Not once.

Which Merlin only realised because he hadn't been able to take his eyes off Arthur. From the flutter of his lashes to the tremble in his left nostril when Merlin squeezed just that little bit more on the downstroke or when he pulled Arthur's hair just that little bit harder – Merlin noticed it all. If this was a dream, or if it was Arthur's dream, he didn't want to miss a second.

After all, how many times did one dream the same thing twice?

Later, Merlin promised himself, later after the orgasms and the kissing and the bloody scarves he was going to have to wear from those marks he knew were blooming on his neck – much later he'd worry about Arthur and about looking him in the eye when he finally woke up and realised what had happened. It was bad form and probably not something a good friend would do, take advantage of a handsy (but terribly good-looking), half-asleep mate, but _god_ did Merlin want this. Even if it was something that broke them, broke what they had to unfixable tiny pieces that would never go back together right – he bloody wanted Arthur Pendragon like nothing he'd ever wanted before.

"Ahh, fuck, Merlin!"

Arthur breathed all hot and harsh against Merlin's throat. Their strokes became erratic as they neared an edge both eagerly anticipated falling over. Merlin was shaking with want and his whole body was ready to explode, but something was holding him back.

"Merlin, fuck, I'm nearly there. Say you're . . . ."

Teeth grazed over Merlin's collarbone, words in warm puffs of air staining his skin, and he realised Arthur was shaking, too.

"Tell me, _godplease!"_

Arthur's eyes flickered open and met Merlin's and they were blue, the brightest Merlin had ever seen them, and they were staring _right at_ Merlin. So open and showing all the things Merlin had longed for, had wanted. Want. Desire. Definitely _more_ than like.

"Merlin," Arthur called again, those lovely white teeth grazing his bottom lip, and that was all it took.

Merlin hissed his way through his release, Arthur's name sounding more like the language of a snake than anything truly comprehensible. Not that it mattered to Arthur. He followed seconds later, his come painting warm, wet lines across Merlin's stomach only to join the sticky mess Merlin had left seconds earlier as Merlin collapsed on top of him in a tangle of sweaty, sated limbs.

Merlin's head fell onto Arthur's chest, his face turned down a little so that Arthur's chin rested just above Merlin's forehead. Neither spoke for several minutes, just breathing and (in Merlin's case) coming to terms with the aftermath.

Fuck, had Merlin really just fucked his best friend?

"Not yet." The husky voice of one who had shouted himself hoarse coming like a freight train only moments earlier rumbled from under Merlin's head.

Warm arms wrapped around Merlin's shoulders and with a laugh, Merlin sank further into Arthur's embrace.

"Maybe if you slept with me instead of watching me you'd have a better chance of getting into my pants, you twat."

Merlin stiffened, realising that his so-called stealth sleep-stalking wasn't so stealthy at all.

(Well, at least he knew now that he'd never be cut out as a ninja or anything heroic of that sort.)

"You knew?" he managed to squeak out as Arthur's hands mapped the now chilling skin of his back, the round of his shoulder, the knobs of bone that made up his spine, the dip where his back ended and his arse began.

Arthur snorted. "Of course. They don't call me Arthur the Vigilant for nothing."

"Nobody calls you that."

Arthur made a sound quite like that of a teacher scolding a student. "Ahh, but you will, won't you now, Merlin? Either that or you don't get to know my cock-sucking skills or the feel of this –" he said, pressing his already half-hard prick against the soft of Merlin's belly (Trust Arthur to have the virility of a teen!) – "slowly taking you apart."

Merlin's buttocks clenched at the thought. He couldn't _wait!_

"Prat," he said with a grin. Arthur's arms pulled him close."

"Idiot," Arthur said in return.

And soon slumber overtook them once more, and when Merlin woke hours later to Arthur's mouth slowly sucking his prick into life, he decided that watching Arthur sleep wasn't going to be enough any more.


End file.
